maybe I won't die alone
by onyourleft126
Summary: Fate- or rather a determined Elf-queen- extends a hand to Murtagh and Thorn and offers them a chance for redemption. Here's how it works out. / set 5 years after Inheritance
1. whatever happened to the red Rider?

_**I. Oh you tell me to hold on, you tell me to hold on/but innocence is gone, and what was right is wrong**_

There is only one question that follows the stories told in the aftermath of Galbatorix's defeat.

What became of the red dragon and his Rider?

The Blue one, the female, the first in a hundred years, had left Alagaesia for good.

The Green one resides peacefully in the kingdom of the elves. Look up to the skies above Ilirea sometimes and perhaps you will catch a glimpse of him.

The Gold one was long dead, and the Black one had become even less than ash in the explosion that rocked the capital.

But the Red one?

He disappeared, they say, into the North after the king's death. He and his Rider have not been seen since then.

With a loose end such as this, people don't know what to think. Good riddance, some say. Others are a little more curious. Most are still afraid.

Five years pass, and eventually, dragons begin to come back to Alagaesia. They arrive on boats from the East, bringing a new generation of Riders with them. But they are not the only ones to return.

There have been sightings. Whispers. Rumors.

The red Rider, they say, the red Rider is back.

These are not the only whispers flying about the land. Alagaesia has a Queen now, and the possibilities for her future are cause for much intrigue.

Men of noble birth come far and wide to try their hand at winning Nasuada's, but through it all she remains steadfast, unbowing to their advances and affections.

"What are you dallying about for?" King Orrin says to her, at a ball held by the Varden's council in the hopes that she would meet someone. "Go pick one already! You already know most of their names and stories by heart."

Nasuada only smiles.

Deep inside she's breaking.

It is hard. Unfair, even. A part of her knows Murtagh is staying away so that she might find happiness in her own time. Yet another part of her feels always drawn to him, wherever he is.

Orrin studies her thoughtfully. "There's someone."

"Yes."

"Someone you can't have."

"Unfortunately, not."

"Anyone I know?"

Nasuada lifts her head. "I assume so, but I doubt that you would approve."

In her solar that night she contemplates her reason for holding out and concludes that she is being silly. There had been no way of knowing that whatever it was between her and Murtagh was really love.

Of course, that's what makes it sad, isn't it? The fact that they never got to find out.

More than a hundred years ago a boy too powerful for his own good lost a part of him that no one should ever lose, and it drove him mad.

Mad enough to destroy those he felt responsible.

The first man to join his bloody cause went down in history as a traitor, a murderer, a monster, and he left behind a legacy of pain and misery.

Oh, and a son. Let's not forget that, that's very important.

That son now flies several hundred feet above cloud cover on a dragon the color of a burning sunset.

 _We are no longer alone, Thorn,_ says Murtagh.

 _We will always be alone_.

 _That's true. But Alagaesia's got dragons again, after a hundred years. What my father unmade has been made new again._

 _And what does that mean for us?_

Murtagh goes quiet. What does it mean? What can it mean?

 _You know we cannot be part of them_. There is longing in the dragon's thoughts. Murtagh can sense it, yearning and apprehension in Thorn's heart of hearts.

 _\- No,_ says Murtagh. _We cannot._

* * *

 _ **II. I'm a ghost, haunting these halls/and I'm lost, I'm broken down the middle of my heart**_

On their triumphant return to Alagaesia as fully-fledged Riders, the new order gets settled into their new, old home under the guidance of Queen Arya and her dragon, Firnen. To welcome them a celebration occurs in Ilirea, with every Royal and noble in the land attending.

Queen Nasuada is standing at the edge of the festivities, close to a line of trees and far enough away from the crowd in the courtyard, when a purple flower floats out the shadows in lazy cartwheels toward her. It tucks itself into her ear, and in the corner of her eye she catches a flicker of movement.

She sees him then, faintly. He is hooded and cloaked, but just enough moonlight is cast on him to light up his eyes.

"Murtagh?" The name tumbles from her lips suddenly.

The answer comes low and soft. "It's me."

"You're here," she breathes. "After five years, you-" She dares to take a step toward him, but Murtagh recoils. He feels like curling away, like a fern leaf in the rain, retreating deeper into the shadows where she cannot reach him.

"Murtagh," she implores, but he cuts her off before she can begin to draw him out.

"I only wanted to say," he says softly, "that you are still as beautiful as when I last saw you. And I should have said goodbye, but I could not. I was a coward."

She shakes her head, "You disappeared and I worried for you."

"You no longer have to. Me and Thorn, we're both all right. Well, we will be."

She nods, understanding. It's enough for him.

A cheer goes up amongst the throng of partygoers. "A toast! To the new order of Shur'tugal!"

"You should join them," whispers Murtagh.

"You are a dragon Rider too. Come with me."

He shakes his head. "No. Not yet."

When she looks up, he has vanished.

Of course he has.

Arya notices the purple flower tucked in Nasuada's hair.

She also looks like she's seen a ghost.

The Riders establish a base in Du Weldenvarden, and from there they take off, exploring the mighty forest from end to end. But they don't go unsupervised.

Sofia Merasdaughter, blonde-haired, human, twenty years of age and Rider to a supple green male dragon, feels eyes on her squadron as they explore the crags of Tel'naeir. She cannot place the feeling at first, but it's there, hovering; someone is watching them.

The shadows yield no answers, and when she reaches out with her thoughts there is nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

A stranger's consciousness only barely slips out of reach of hers.

She's not the only one. Others feel it too. They sense presences in the places where most Elvesdo not go, wild parts of the forest unsafe but to dragon Riders.

"They're not hostile, I know for sure," Edvard Noahsson (black-haired, human, seventeen years of age and Rider to a black female dragon) insists. "They're just...watching."

"They might even be only watching out for us," reasons another. She is Koura, an Urgal, seventeen like Edvard and Rider to a yellow male dragon.

"It's definitely a Rider and his dragon, for sure." Dalan, silver-haired, Elf, fifty years of age (very young for his race) and Rider to a white male dragon.

"Then who else can it be?" It is Sofia who speaks. She recalls the stories she was told as a girl, the war that raged on when she was but a child. "It's obviously him. Murtagh Morzansson."

"Murtagh Kingkiller," hisses Bronür Varikson, brown-haired, Dwarf, nineteen years of age and Rider to a diminutive blue female dragon. "Never forget that."

"Murtagh, Eragon's half brother," Sofia responds. "Don't forget that, either. And do not forget what he said: if we were to find him-"

"- then he may be able to help us," finishes Edvard. "Well, can he? Will he?"

"And can we trust him?" demands Koura.

Word of it, of being watched and followed by the enigmatic duo, reaches Arya.

She draws her lips together tight. Of course this would happen.

* * *

 _ **III. What do I stand for?/ Most nights I don't know anymore**_

It would be the mark of a poor Queen if she did not detect uninvited visitors to her realm, so when Arya Dröttning gets a lock two presences close to the edge of Du Weldenvarden she cancels the day's duties and goes hunting instead.

She and Firnen fly along the outskirts of the great forest, following the faint trace of a familiar consciousness until at last, they catch up with them.

Thorn stirs, wary _. - We have company._

When Arya makes it clear they mean them no harm, only then do Murtagh and Thorn lower their guard. Well, slightly.

"Murtagh," is the first thing she says.

Green dragon and red dragon eye each other with apprehension.

"What do you want?" he replies, voice hard.

Arya's chin remains lifted and proud, clearly the dominant in the conversation, "I want nothing. Only to see you, and for us to talk. Did you think you could remain unnoticed for long?"

"So somebody did see us."

"There has been talk of two mysterious watchers following the Riders' movements. They can feel you, but you remain an enigma."

"Good," Murtagh huffs, "We're going to stay that way."

Arya's slanted brows furrow. "It has been five years. Why are you still here, Murtagh? Why do you linger on the fringes of the world?"

"We don't belong anywhere else."

"But you have found peace in those years, I hope."

Murtagh frowns and softens a little. "Thorn and I are...we no longer bear hatred toward those who have wronged us. They're dead and gone and we have grown and changed." He glances at his dragon. "But being among the living is what's hard, especially when they don't trust us. We've nothing to offer this world anymore."

Arya tilts her head. "Five years ago the first of these young Riders left Alagaesia. Now they have returned, training nearly complete save for their assimilation back into this realm. But I have realized that I cannot do this alone. I must not do this alone, not when there's another Rider in Alagaesia." She meets his gaze. "I want your help, Murtagh. Help me guide these young ones as they start fresh here."

Her words hang in the air like a sunspot, a fragile thing too hard to look at. Murtagh and Thorn exchange glances.

It is Thorn who speaks up. _\- Trust me, Arya Dröttning, this will not go over well. Some of those young ones lived through the times of the Empire; they remember. They will not trust us._

"No?"

 _\- No. We bring too much of the pain of the past with us._

"You have trouble with the past?" Arya says flatly. "Then come help build the future. You cannot undo what you've done, but perhaps you can begin to atone for it by doing this, by nurturing what your father destroyed."

Arya's assured air bothers Murtagh. He hates that she seems so sure.

"Did Eragon put you up to this?"

"He has told the young Riders that should they need help, they might ask you."

"Shit," mutters Murtagh. _Brother, what are you thinking?_

"But I heard you hovering about and sought you out. The world order has begun anew, and Firnen and I feel that the remaining Riders must stick together."

Murtagh regards her wryly. "You need a hand with the new Riders."

"They," Arya says deliberately, "need more than one teacher. More than one approach to what it means to take up this legacy. If you travel Alagaesia without a purpose, then you will find it here, with redemption as well."

"And what wisdom can I impart them? How to hurt, how to ruin, how to break others? I'm not good for anything except that."

"They will learn from you that one's choices, not their past, will always define who they are," Arya states. "In time you will forge a new name for yourself, of that I am certain, and it will be this name that the world shall remember you by."

Again Murtagh and Thorn exchange glances.

"We will think about it," Murtagh says.

Arya nods. "You know where to find me."

She jumps onto Firnen's back and soon, they are gone.

Thorn growls again, sliding his head under his Rider's arm.

 _I don't like him._

 _Who, Firnen?_

 _Aye._ He pauses. _He's too happy._

 _So what do you think?_

 _You know what I think; you're in my head all the time._

Murtagh puts a hand on Thorn's shoulder. _\- That I do. I know what you feel as well. You crave the company of your own kind._

 _Yes. But I'm wary, too. Like you told Arya, nobody will trust us._

 _She does._

Silence.

Then Murtagh says, _\- I think it's time, Thorn. Don't you?_

His dragon rumbles _. - Despite the aloofness you showed Arya, you're ready to get back out there, Murtagh, and so am I. The question is, is the rest of the world ready for us, after what we've done?_

 _We'll do it. No matter the cost._

 _Do you think we can?_

 _We have failed doing worse things,_ shrugs Murtagh _. Perhaps we will succeed in doing the right thing for once._

They meet Arya and Firnen at the edge of the forest on a full-moon night. This time it is Murtagh who speaks first.

"Arya. We're in."

She merely nods once. "I appreciate that you made the decision."

"I did it for Thorn," Murtagh plows on. "He's got to be with other dragons. He wanted to be. We're both willing to work out what it means to be amongst our kind again."

"That's a start, Argetlam," murmurs Arya, and Firnen hums in affirmation.

Murtagh isn't done. "But the moment I screw up- and I'm certain I will-"

"Why must you men be so dramatic?" Arya sighs.

"- the minute you see even the slightest hint of my father in me, I want you to kill me. Kill both of us."

"Nobody is killing anybody in my kingdom. Have a little faith in yourself," Arya says, somewhat sharply. "Now, we have tarried long enough. Let us go. It would be best for you not to overtake us so as not to arouse panic as we approach."

They mount their dragons side by side.

Fate, it seems, has some sense of irony, because when he first meets the entire number of dragon Riders they assemble in the forest in a perfect ring of thirteen. Thirteen, like the Forsworn.

The parallel makes Murtagh's head almost hurt.

He expects to be met with distrust, apprehension, even outright hostility. In fact, he's anticipating it. But one thing he forgets is that they were once Eragon's students, and if anyone besides Arya believes that there is hope for him yet, it's Eragon.

There is wariness in their eyes, to be sure, but they greet him in the Ancient Language and regard him with a mixture of respect and reservation.

"Your suspicions were true, young Riders. The watchers looking after you are indeed Murtagh Morzansson and his dragon, Thorn. I have asked them to join our ranks they have agreed to help you finish your training," says Arya. She has them listening to her rapt and devoted, clearly the figure in charge. "From today onward you will respect them as you do myself and Firnen and you will refer to them as Master. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Ebrithil," comes the chorus of voices.

It sends a chill up Murtagh's spine. They call him Master.

That doesn't sound right at all.


	2. And thus it begins

_**I. And just one mistake is all it will take/we'll go down in history, remember me for centuries**_

It must be the intimidating figure Murtagh strikes, or that for all the good they've heard he's done, these Riders still recall how in their childhood he was spoken of as a villain, a monster. They don't ask about those days in his past, but he sees they want to. They start out skittish and wary around him at first, unsure what they would like to believe, but Murtagh sets his teeth and does his job, and when he speaks, at least they listen.

In five years of traveling there isn't a place in Alagaesia that he and Thorn don't know, and soon he takes them there in small groups, showing every mile of this beautiful, resilient land to its newly-returned inhabitants, and each one has its resources to offer the young Riders. They mark potential strategic territory, places to make new camps should their ranks expand, areas to explore or defend from natural disaster.

This, Murtagh realizes as he watches them gather around a campfire and laughing beneath the starlight, is what he can offer. A world worth loving and defending. Under his guidance, the Riders come to love their new, old home enough to protect it.

The view from where they've camped, at the edge of the Hadarac Desert, is spectacular.

He thinks Nasuada would love it.

After months of quiet, the rumors start up again. The red Rider, they say, the red Rider is back, and he has joined the others. It's clear he no longer wants to stay apart.

Nasuada sits at the head of the council table quietly, waiting for the hubbub to die down, but she cannot help but hear. To her face they refer to him as Eragon's half-brother, as the man who rescued her; but she also hears him spoken of with distrust and suspicion. After all, who knows what his true motives were?

All she thinks is: _Prove them wrong, Murtagh. I have faith in you, so prove them all damn wrong._

"So, I take it tomorrow's flight is cancelled then?"

The blizzard howls around the cave like a monster untamed, and it draws the five young Riders and their dragons together in a knot around a crackling fire. Murtagh and Thorn stand at the side of the cave mouth, ever watchful. "Unless you think you can navigate these terrible conditions safely, Dalan, then yes. We're stuck here until the blizzard lets up."

"This is crazy, man," Edvard says. "The weather was never like this on the Dragon Islands."

"You'd better get used to it, Noahsson. Alagaesia's got it all- snow, hail, wind, sandstorms, rain, thunder and lightning and the occasional aurora." Murtagh reaches a hand out, making sure the magical seal he's placed over the cave mouth to keep the blizzard out is still holding. "You're a long way from your training grounds."

"Auroras, you said?" says Koura. "Where?"

 _Not far from here,_ answers Thorn. _They occur in the thin air above the highest mountains of the Beor._

"Will you show them to us?"

She is bright eyed, in spite of her age and her coarse (by human standards) Urgal features, and Murtagh has come to discover that the beautiful things of this fascinating new world are precious even to her, whose race has long been credited with violence and destruction.

He manages a smile. "I could, yes."

"That would be nice," says Sofia. She has a light, practical air about things, the natural leader of this squadron. "But first we must wait out this blizzard."

"Aye."

Silence.

Edvard, ever the mercurial one, stirs restlessly. "I am bored as all fuck."

"Then I propose a round of storytelling," says Dalan swiftly, and Koura visibly groans.

"Dalan, we always do this! So much so we're all out of the good ones."

"Eragon always had good ones," muses Edvard, knees drawn up to his chin. "Remember?"

"Aye, the best ones."

"I bet Master's got some good ones too," says Sofia, without looking at Murtagh.

He instantly feels the other four pairs of eyes (eight, if you count their dragons) turn to him interestedly.

Murtagh shifts. "No, I'm afraid not, young ones."

"But you shared some of those adventures with Eragon," points out Edvard.

"I was mostly on the opposite side, remember?" Murtagh responds dryly. "Anyway, the ones I know...they are not good stories to come back to. The past's in the past."

"We heard," Dalan says, "that you saved Queen Nasuada when Galbatorix captured her."

Murtagh frowns. "I hope Eragon deigned to mention that it was I who was ordered to capture her in the first place. What I did to help her after was all I could do. It was barely heroic."

"Eragon spoke of it as such."

This time Murtagh smiles, "Eragon always did insist on seeing the best in people. Especially me."

He pauses. Thorn nudges against his mind gently, _\- They want to hear of it, Murtagh. Perhaps they'll learn something from it._

Murtagh joins the circle, folding his legs. "All right, I bet Eragon never told you that I could have indeed been a hero and saved the Queen, but he messed up my plan."

"Oh, now this we haven't heard," Bronür says interestedly. "So, uh, what happened?"

He tells them. For this first time in five years, someone else besides Thorn knows Murtagh's side of the story. For the first time, Murtagh peels back the dark veneer of his past and focuses on the small triumphs he didn't know he'd achieved.

They listen captivated. When he finishes, there's a question, as he expected.

"You resisted Galbatorix?" asks Sofia keenly.

"Aye. It was difficult at first, but-"

"But he knew your true name. He could make you do anything."

"Aye, he did. And he made me do the worst things- things I only came to regret after." He glances at Bronür, and knows the Dwarf is thinking of King Hrothgar.

"So how did you shake it?"

"That's simple." Murtagh pauses. "I changed my true name. Or rather, it just changed as I did, when I decided to- to help Nasuada rather than harm her." And to never hurt her again. "It changed everything."

The Riders look at each other in awe.

Murtagh grins. "I believe I've found a slight overlook in Eragon's training at last. He never told you about using the power of true names, though he drew on it constantly to defeat Galbatorix?" He sits up straighter. "Your true name is the essence of who or what you are. You must allow yourself to change and grow to be free of that which has power over you. When you change, your name changes, and your fate with it."

The silence that falls is less awkward, and more like the young ones are soaking up his advice. He's never put his new philosophy into words before, but now that there are ears to hear them it somehow validates it, making it worth something.

Murtagh feels approval wafting in from Thorn's connection, and he smiles, segueing toward another topic to lighten the mood.

"And speaking of names, I'm told you haven't chosen a squadron title yet."

"We're trapped in here, so how about the Cavewalker Squadron?" says Edvard.

"Or Blizzard Squadron," jokes Dalan. "Or maybe Stuck On The Ground Till Dawn Squadron."

Murtagh shakes his head with a chuckle, "Try again, I think."

* * *

 _ **II. Well I didn't know me like I know me now/sometimes you gotta get lost so you can be found**_

It's funny what being trapped in a blizzard does to people, because after that, the Riders start to see Murtagh in a different light.

To them, he's no longer merely Murtagh Morzansson, or Murtagh Kingkiller.

This time, when they call him Ebrithil, it seems right. To all of them.

And so, Murtagh Ebrithil he becomes.

"I notice that Sofia's squadron has taken a liking to you particularly. They admire you, Murtagh."

"I cannot help but think that the only reason they're willing to learn from me is because Eragon said I could be trusted," he admits.

Arya's reply is simple and straightforward. "Of course it was. But you have proved it to them."

"It's ironic."

"What is?"

"All this. Morzan destroys the Riders...his son helps them begin anew. Irony."

Arya quirks a small, wry smile at him. "Destiny." She gathers a stack of parchments together carefully. "Although I daresay you still have a long way to go when it comes to redeeming yourself to the rest of Alagaesia. Either you are a ghost, a myth or still Galbatorix's right-hand man, and not everyone sees that your role in this world is different now."

"I warned you," Murtagh shrugs. "I told you it would be hard for people to forget."

"And the past cannot be forgotten," she replies, "but changes can be made in the present to atone for it. I have been thinking."

"Of what?"

Arya puts the papers down so she can focus better on Murtagh. "Calling an assembly. A meeting of Alagaesia's rulers. I intend to have them pardon you for your actions in the war."

He has to remind himself that she is a Queen and used to getting what she wants, yet she cannot possibly think it will work. Murtagh shakes his head. "Arya. What would you achieve by that?"

"You would be able to go and do as you wish, without fear of hostility or animosity. You and Thorn would never need to hide again." Arya makes it sound so simple, so selfless. "And you would be legally recognized as one of us."

"You can't force them."

"Then perhaps your value to us as Rider will convince them." Arya pauses. "Nasuada would agree."

Murtagh places a hand on her shoulder gently. "I appreciate that you have thought of this, but it's really not necessary."

"You can't live in hiding forever, Murtagh."

"And I am not hiding. I'm just...keeping my distance. Sticking to the ones who trust me."

"Not good enough. You are doing the right thing now and people need to see you've changed."

He meets her gaze, "You really think I have changed?"

"You," Arya says, "are nigh unrecognizable. Where one might have once called you broken, I see nothing but a whole man before me. Some cracks here and there, some uncertainties, yes. But all in all, you have indeed changed, Murtagh." She pauses.

"But?" he asks.

Her reply is curt. "I suppose, if anything, you could use a haircut."

The thing about dragons bonded to Riders is that, over time, the emotions of one tend to blur into the other, influencing every thought thereafter.

Thorn sees this theory in action when, as days pass by and Arya and Murtagh's bond of trust grows, so does his with Firnen.

Firnen is still a young dragon, his mind full of light and happiness, cheerful humility and somewhat naive eagerness. Quite a far cry from Arya's experienced, roughened and practical view of the world, and certainly different from Thorn and Murtagh's personal experiences of pain and hostility.

Thorn thinks, give it a few hundred years and a few million losses, and some of that brightness in Firnen might just dim a little. Isn't that what life does to us all?

But the more he spends time with the green dragon, the more he is convinced that Firnen is the one light that will never go out. And in some ways it's kind of annoying, his constant state of cheerfulness and serenity, but in others it is refreshing, even soothing.

 _It is good, is it not?_ Firnen rumbles in that deep voice of his, as they watch the younger dragons washing off in a river, _to be amongst our own kind. I was very lonely for a time before you, and they, came. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for Saphira, to be thought the last free dragon for so long._

 _I was lonely too,_ Thorn murmurs. _But we came here to be with dragons and Riders like us._

 _And how do you find it? Is it everything you expected?_

Thorn swings his head to face him, _\- It is far better than anything we expected. I feel good here._

 _That's good, then._

 _Tell me,_ Thorn decides to venture, _do you miss her? Saphira? I am told you have a...history together._

Firnen makes a rasping, genuinely amused chuckle _. - Yes, I do miss her from time to time. I think of her often. I hear her voice when these young dragons tell me of her. I am glad that she is happy where she is. He pauses. They tell me she thinks of me, but one thing we do agree on: if we cannot be together, it would be best for us to find happiness with others, if we can._

Thorn says nothing. The way Firnen talks about it sounds so self-assured, while he has grown to believe that complete happiness would always be nothing more than a fantasy to him. But this, being amongst free dragons and their brave Riders, seems close enough.

Firnen regards him with concern. His eyes are golden, like drops of afternoon sunlight.

Thorn is thinking he might have a favorite color now.

* * *

 _ **III. Oh, if the sky comes falling down, for you/there's nothing in this world I wouldn't do**_

He'd never promised the youngsters he would show them the auroras, but he keeps his word anyway. The next time Murtagh brings Sofia's squadron out on patrol he makes sure it's going to be a clear night, and proposes a detour on the way home that leads them higher and higher above the mountains than they've gone before. When night falls, the colors break across the sky.

The Riders are exhilarated.

"Beautiful!" exclaims Edvard, as the dragons take off looping and spiraling between the pulsing shades of light. "Extraordinary!"

Somewhere below him, Murtagh hears Dalan break into joyful song.

It's an almost perfect moment. Almost.

Murtagh senses the danger first, sharp and dark and foreboding under the euphoria, but he is still too late to act, and Dalan's song turns into a shrill scream. Their attackers come in from all sides, flapping wings and screeching cries.

"What are those things?" Murtagh hears Koura cry.

"Fanghur!" He manages to cry out, and instantly hears all their dragons' thoughts go _oh, so those are Fanghur_. Then they snap quickly into attack mode, the tactics taught to them by Thorn and Firnen taking precedence.

But the Fanghur are wild things, and they attack without strategy, only pure animosity, scattering the dragons in chaos.

 _I'm an idiot_ , Murtagh growls to Thorn, as he draws Zar'roc and slashes half-blindly at a swoop of ugly scaled wings. The Fanghur rule the nights in these mountains, and of course they would attack such alien and threatening newcomers to their territory. _The Riders have never been this far into the Beor before._

 _And the dragons have been gone so long that things like these have replaced us on top of the food chain,_ Thorn snarls back. _But I think it is time to set the natural order back to rights._

The sky burns again; this time not with the colors of the aurora but with dragon fire, torching the night and frying the lizards crisp. And Thorn is a comet among them, all snarls and ferocity, instantly taking out one after the other. Murtagh slices one open as it's about to attack Dalan; he knocks one out with a bolt of magic as it tangles with Amihan, Sofia's dragon; he drives one into the savage tail-swing of Koura's dragon Sakor so that it plummets, broken in several places. It's a messy, sloppy counterattack, but what matters is that he saves them.

But in the dragons' absence the Fanghur have bred like flies, and more keep on coming.

"There are so many of them!" shrieks Edvard from somewhere to Murtagh's right.

"Try to make it to a higher altitude!" Murtagh bellows, projecting his words as thoughts as well. "The Fanghur- are cold-blooded- they won't survive the heights like dragons do-"

"A little help!" hollers Bronür from above them.

Murtagh sees him- stabbing wildly from his dragon Yorra's back at two Fanghur who have easily targeted the smallest members of the party. One of them tips Yorra completely over, raking her with its claws. She roars in agony, and as the pain spikes through Bronür as well, he loses his hold.

He slides off her back, saddle and all, the straps shredded by their attackers, and drops like a stone.

Bronür's mind is a cloud of chaos. _This can't be happening what a stupid way to go I knew dwarves should have stayed underground oh gods no I just got here now I'm going to fucking die-_

"Huildr*!" shouts Murtagh, and Bronür stops. He hangs in midair for a full second until Murtagh pulls him onto Thorn's back and they arc upward again.

"- thought Eragon taught you how to handle falling if it ever happened!" Murtagh's saying when the roaring stops in Bronür's ears.

"Yes, Master. I panicked, Master."

 _Bronür!_ calls Yorra anxiously.

"You'd better get back to her," Murtagh says. "We're gonna-"

He doesn't finish his sentence.

A Fanghur swoops into Thorn's flight path, striking the great red dragon's neck. Thorn bellows, spitting fire.

Another descends, claws out, and pries Murtagh off his saddle.

"EBRITHIL!" screams Bronür.

He's caught between two claws, and he loses his grip on Zar'roc- the sword topples into the darkness, out of reach and leaving Murtagh defenseless- he feels teeth in his shoulder, in his ribs, and Thorn feels it too and he trumpets his pain and helplessness-

A bolt of silver magic, a shrill animal shriek, and the Fanghur drops him, heavily, onto another dragon saddle.

"Got him!" Murtagh hears Dalan call, a clear voice through the haze of agony he's trapped in. "We have to get out of here- Anybody got a plan?"

"Aye," calls Sofia, steely-eyed. "How's everyone's wards holding up?"

"We should be able to take a few more hits- or one big one," Koura says through gritted teeth.

"Good, 'cause I've got a pretty big hit in mind." She forms a globe of crackling green energy around one hand. "On my command, everyone's gonna blast everything they've got at this, all right?" She tosses the globe into the air. "Now!"

Five different types of energy converge in one, culminating in a terrific blast that knocks the Fanghur right out of the air.

Even in his weakened state, Murtagh is dimly aware of what's happened: Sofia has created a magical bomb.

And it worked.

The light is almost blinding, and Sofia is calling out something, but Murtagh cannot hear it. He can only hear Thorn's heart beating arrhythmically next to his, and then everything goes black.


	3. we put the 'red' in 'redemption'

_I. Put to rest what you thought of me/as I clean this slate with the hands of uncertainty_

"Gods. Oh gods, he is bleeding so much. Oh gods-"

 _Take heart, young ones,_ Thorn rumbles, _though he's trying to be strong for them. He will survive. I...I am holding him together._

"We need more than magic if we're going to save him," Dalan insists, as they strap their unconscious teacher to his dragon's back. "We need somewhere he can recover and somewhere we can stay safe-"

"I know a place," Bronür puts in quickly. "He's not gonna like it, but it's our only choice."

When the guards of Tronjheim see what the Riders have brought them, they become as stubborn as Dwarves can be.

"You have brought with you a traitor and a murderer. Our healers will not touch him."

Thorn growls. Koura makes a sound of outrage.

"Then don't," says Sofia, trying to keep her head up. "But at least give us a place where he can rest, and whatever medicine you have, and we'll handle the healing."

Bronür raises his hands as if to calm the guards. "You can take my word for it, kinsmen. Go to your place of healing and search for Andarra Gundasdaughter. She is the head matriarch still, is she not?"

"She is. Why?"

"She's my aunt," Bronür says, "and if you were to tell her that you denied her favorite nephew and his friends the help they needed, what would you imagine she would say? I recall her having quite the temper."

They glower and they glare but they step aside, and the dragon Riders enter.

"Favorite nephew, huh?" says Dalan breathlessly as they straggle down the passageway, followed by their dragons.

"Aye. I'm her only nephew."

He's bleeding all over the place and the injuries are severe, and though they too are damaged and bloody and exhausted, they put him first.

The Riders link hands, sharing the last of their energy, and Dalan channels it through the silver mark on his hand, passing it over Murtagh's body and putting him back together as best they can.

Scars are left, though not as noticeable as the one that streaks stark across his muscled back.

"I think that's a very old one," Koura says softly, after Dalan tries, "and we cannot make it go away."

Thorn's thoughts brush against Murtagh's the moment he slips back into consciousness.

 _Oh, my dear heart, my poor brave one,_ he murmurs softly, sending comfort and affection between their mental link. _You're awake. I was so worried for you._

 _Thorn. What happened?_

 _The Fanghur nearly tore you into pieces. I got there before it could, but the damage was- I'm sorry I couldn't protect you-_

 _It's all right,_ Murtagh soothes. _The kids, though, are the kids all right?_

 _See for yourself_.

Murtagh opens his eyes. The surroundings are not familiar, not fit to his size nor indeed, to Sofia, who stands at his bedside arranging pots of medicine. She looks up.

"Ebrithil!"

"Sofia..."

She reaches out and pats his arm. "How are you feeling?"

"Badly. But not too badly," he adds, when Sofia looks worried. "Where are we?"

"Tronjheim, capital of the Dwarves. It was the closest city we could get to."

Dwarves.

Hrothgar's people.

Shit.

Murtagh groans, attempts to sit up. "Sofia...this is literally...the worst possible place you could bring me..."

Her green eyes are steady and confident. "Don't worry, Bronür's got it covered."

Bronür has.

"...the Fanghur would have indeed overpowered us, and we'd have never have survived if not for Murtagh and Thorn. I lost hold of my own dragon, Yorra, when the winged lizards attacked her, and plummeted to what seemed like certain death, only to be caught safely by the red Rider himself." The young dwarf looks up at the Dwarven high council. "Ask any Rider here and they will agree with me when I say he is to be trusted; nay, honored even. And certainly Queen Arya herself will vouch for both Rider and dragon. The war's over, many of us are starting anew; and no one is doing his best to do so than Murtagh."

The council murmurs. King Orik says nothing, but looks on at Bronür, and the small smile he gives the Rider reveals that he believes him.

"Tell us honestly, boy," says one, "did he send you to convince us?"

Bronür grins. "He's been unconscious for five hours. This is me talking." He makes a sweeping bow. "Thus, from dwarf to dwarf, I humbly ask your council: will you pardon our master for his past crimes?"

"They're stubborn!" Bronur exclaims. "It's unbelievable. Am I ever that stubborn?"

Arya remains serious from beyond the surface of the scrying glass. "Bronur, these men don't know Murtagh like you and your friends do. They will need more solid convincing apart from your word."

He shakes his head, "they've given us a place to stay and somewhere Ebrithil can recover, but it's causing a stir, to say the least. I had to exploit the 'my aunt works at the infirmary' card just to get in. We have to struggle our way through crowds outside the healing chambers if we want to visit him. They gather at the doors and call and jeer for him to be thrown out or put to death. Word is spreading- we hear other cities are outraged that the Dwarves would harbour such a man- I'm scared somebody's going to break in and try to hurt him-"

Arya holds a hand up to quiet the Dwarf. "Bronür, don't worry. I'm coming over."

"You are?"

"Aye. It is time to fix this."

* * *

 _II. Do you wake up on your own, and wonder where you are/and live with all your faults?_

Andarra Gundasdaughter is less than pleased that the infirmary is housing the dwarves' foremost public enemy, but she has not seen her nephew in five years, much less the pleading in his eyes when he begs her to let them stay, so she digresses. The infirmary rules that no more than two visitors may enter a room at a time, but the young ones persist, and again Andarra digresses (grudgingly), allowing all five of them into the ward at once.

The entire squadron huddles around Murtagh, enveloping him in a group hug, and he pulls them all close in relief.

"Thank you," he says softly. "Thank you. I am so proud of all of you."

It is late evening when Arya arrives. Murtagh senses her before he sees her, but when she finally shows up in his room she embraces him like a brother.

"I am so glad you're safe."

"Arya?" Murtagh mumbles into her hair. "It's good to see you too, but...what are you doing here?"

"I am going to make things right." She pulls back to look him in the eye. "I have called a council, like I said I would. And I am going to convince them you deserve to be free."

There's a sinking feeling in his gut. "Do we- do we have to? Can't we just go home?"

"It's too late for that," Bronür says from behind the Queen. "People know you're here. They want the rulers of Alagaesia to do something, anything, about that."

"And I intend to make sure that 'something' is a good thing," Arya insists.

Murtagh fidgets. "What can I do?"

"Sit still, gather your strength," Arya says, "and let the politicians handle it."

The next two days go by rather quickly, and although the young ones do their best to keep Murtagh in high spirits, he cannot help but sense the emotions seething outside the infirmary. Tronjheim is prickling at him in rage and spite, and he is sure that beyond the walls of his sickroom there are many that want him dead.

He only has Bronür to thank that they've let them stay this long.

"King Orrin and Queen Nasuada are on their way," Arya informs Murtagh on her next visit to his ward.

Nasuada. After all these years, Murtagh is unsure of how he will be if, when, he finally faces her. Especially under such circumstances.

"So, if we don't get a pardon like you wanted," he says quietly, "what's the worst that can happen? You kill me?"

"The death sentence died along with Galbatorix," Arya says curtly. "Nasuada doesn't work that way. No, I suppose the worst would be either life imprisonment- unlikely, given that you are bonded to a dragon- or continued exile."

Murtagh frowns. "Then I would never see the students again?"

Arya puts a hand on his shoulder. "We're going to work it out. Trust me."

"Maybe," he says slowly, "it's for the best. Maybe Thorn and I should just go."

She tsks impatiently. "Not an option. You have come this far, Murtagh. I will not let that go to waste, not after these young Riders put their faith in you."

"Arya, at this point in time they are only a minority of a whole world I helped nearly destroy," argues Murtagh. "Influential and powerful as the Riders may be, there are still more people whose minds they cannot change, starting with the Dwarves." He pauses. "How can I begin to atone for this?"

"We'll find a way."

Unexpectedly, Murtagh does.

Some of the rumors that find their way into his Ward, carried in by the young Riders, include news of how the Dwarves have begun to rebuild in the advent of a new age. They're repairing damages, constructing new homes, erecting monuments, taking back what is theirs.

He hears the name from Bronür first: Orthiad.

The Empire took over the ancient Dwarf city, making it their own, and used it as a base when they attacked the Varden in the mountains. It was cursed, they said, full of the reeking energy of dark magic and Shade's enchantments, and even after the King's death some of it had stayed, hanging like a shroud over the place even when it was abandoned.

Dwarf spellcasters had been trying for two years now to get past it, and only received a poisonous plague for their troubles. Attempts to reclaim the city had been put on indefinite hold while their mages researched a way to overcome it.

 _We could fix that,_ Thorn murmurs like a guardian angel in the back of Murtagh's head.

* * *

 _II_ _I. Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell/where can you run to escape from yourself?_

Arya is surprised- surprised and pleased- when at last she drags Murtagh in front of the fully-assembled council (including but not limited to King Orrin of Surda, High Queen Nasuada of Alagaesia, King Orik of the Dwarves, and representatives from their respective governments) and he puts himself forward with an apology she never thought he would make.

Not that she ever doubted he was sorry.

"I understand that there are many here who want me dead for what I've done," Murtagh says, and all eyes are on him and Thorn- riveted, searching, perhaps waiting for a chance to condemn them. "I do not blame them. But in the past two and a half months Thorn and I have spent in Ellesmera with the new Riders, we have...we have found a new sense of purpose. A reason to think that starting over may be worth it for us. So we have decided, that while we can in no way undo the wrongs we have done, we can help rebuild and make things better somehow."

He's glancing toward Arya now, somewhat uncertainly. She only sends the slightest nudge of encouragement down their common empathic link. Murtagh continues. "We have heard that the Dwarves are trying to retake Orthiad, but with no success because of the dark magic that still lingers on it."

"That is true," says Orik.

"Then Thorn and I offer ourselves in service to you." He kneels, and Thorn dips his head low. "We will, if you will let us, expel whatever curse lies over Orthiad, and help your people rebuild and reclaim it."

 _And our service will extend beyond Orthiad,_ Thorn adds, projecting his thoughts across the hall. _Whatever the Dwarves may need from now on in undoing Galbatorix's taint from their_ _lands, we shall ever be at your call. No matter what it is, or how long it takes. This, we feel, is the least we can do._

Now dragon and Rider speak together, " _In recompense for the offenses we have made against the race of Dwarves, we pledge our loyalty and power to you and to those striving to build the world anew."_

The hall is silent after that.

Thorn twitches his tail, anticipating.

Then Orik says, "This council will convene in private. Please leave us."

"It is clear that these young ones look up to him, and care about him with a ferocity that is admirable. I don't know how he did it, but he's got them on his side," Orik's saying. Arya can see that in spite of the hurt he's wrestling with, the difficulty he faces of not making the issue personal, he is impressed with Murtagh's offer- perhaps even relieved.

"And that's a good thing?" Orrin says.

"Whatever is that supposed to mean?" says Nasuada quietly. It is the first time she has spoken.

Orrin frowns. "He could be using them to his advantage, manipulating them as his father did."

"Trust me," Arya says, her voice clear and strong, "if he had any ill intent, I would have known. And I would have put a stop to it."

"So we can trust him," Nasuada says.

"I have at least five Riders in this city who would defend his honor. So would Eragon, if he were here." She pauses. "So would I." _And so would you, Nasuada. Help me out here._

"Yet, Arya, your kind must be raring at him, after what he did to the last Elf Rider," puts in Orik.

"As long as he is willing to repent, my people bear no existing hatred toward Murtagh. We have lost much during the war and an old grudge will only get in the way of rebuilding."

"Rebuild," repeats Nasuada. "Murtagh- and his dragon- offered to be there for whoever wanted to rebuild in the aftermath of Galbatorix's defeat. I think that is enough. He started with the Dwarves because he knows he made the greatest offense to them, but in truth, his mission for atonement extends across Alagaesia. As it rightly should."

"I told you," Arya says adamantly. "They truly mean this."

Orrin nods. "Then I say yes. It is certainly better having him with the Riders where one can keep an eye on him, or providing aid to those who still need it, rather than having him and his dragon fly rogue all over Alagaesia without knowing their intent."

"Nasuada?" Orik asks.

The Queen nods as well. "I saw good in him before," is all she says. "This is the right thing to do."

"And we all know what Eragon would think," Orik says quietly.

The thundering crescendo of mighty wings and the growing presence of a joyful, sunlit consciousness prelude the arrival of Firnen into the Dragonhold. Thorn looks up from the cave he is sitting in, several rows away from the the other five young ones. Rather than land in the center of the hold, atop the newly-rebuilt Star Sapphire, Firnen lands on the ledge outside Thorn's cave.

He's practically hopping with excitement.

 _They agreed, Thorn,_ he exclaims at once. _The council has decided. They're pardoning you and Murtagh and taking up your offer of service._

Thorn instantly relaxes, his wings dropping in relief. _Oh, that is good._ Instantly the younger dragons perk up, their delight mixing along the edges of Thorn's consciousness. But he's not prepared for the way Firnen bounds up to him and nuzzles him with gusto, the affection rolling off him in waves. Thorn's stunned, but finds that he appreciates it- and he hopes Firnen can feel it too.

He does.

 _I am so happy for you,_ the green dragon rumbles. _It would have truly been a loss for the Shur'tugal if you had to leave. You are important to all of us._

Thorn dips his head with Firnen pulls away. _\- Thank you, Firnen. And thank Arya for us as well. This would not have happened if not for her._ He pauses. _You have always been so kind. I...do not deserve it._

Firnen flicks his tail. - _Nonsense._ He backs out of the cave, _Now, how's hungry? Let us hunt among the mountain ranges! Perhaps we will find one of those huge boars the Dwarves so boast about..._

The young dragons chatter and chime in eagerness and follow Firnen into the open air. Thorn follows, his heart lifting as it never had before.

 _We are no longer alone._


	4. Can we start over'

Y'all asked for it. Here it is. The first of quite a few MxN moments.

* * *

 _ **I. All caught up in the eye of the storm/and trying to figure out what it's like moving on**_

Murtagh starts out by agreeing to swear fealty to all of Alagaesia's rulers. He is, Arya informs him, the second Rider in history to make such an official allegiance, the first of course being Eragon when he swore himself to Nasuada all those years ago. Murtagh's time serving Galbatorix doesn't count, because, as Arya states again and again, that was never really Murtagh's choice.

He's beginning to get used to that, the idea of 'who-he-was' being separate from 'who-he-has-become.' It feels like taking off a long, heavy cloak and casting it aside.

And now he truly feels like he's starting over.

The squadron hears the news too, and they're thrilled- jumping up and down like small children and hugging Murtagh again and again, all formalities thrown aside.

"Wait, so-" Bronür says at last, "if Master's going to stay here and help rebuild Orthiad, and then some, will he not return to Ellesmera?"

"Of course he will," Arya says swiftly. "Murtagh is a dragon Rider first and foremost. He is one of us."

Murtagh smiles, a warm feeling spreading over him. "She's right. I may have pledged myself to Alagaesia's leaders, but my main duty lies with the Riders- and the responsibility of keeping you kids out of trouble," he adds, and they all grin at him.

It is only after that Murtagh makes amends with Orik personally.

"It will take time," the Dwarf King says, "for all of my kin to trust and forgive you. You have made a great scar upon our history, Argetlam."

"I know," Murtagh mumbles. He cannot even begin to explain how he thought, at the time, he'd been doing the right thing when he slew King Hrothgar, when all the signs pointed to it being very wrong.

Yet Orik- Orik, Hrothgar's nephew, Orik upon whose shoulders the Dwarf race has been burdened because of his uncle's death, peers at him and understands. "But you came back and you offered to make up for it. Do you know how hard that is? Even for the best of men, the noblest of warriors? When people do the wrong thing they tend to walk on and act like it didn't happen, and that's what gets in the way of change as much as holding on to old grudges does." He reaches up and grabs Murtagh's elbows in a friendly manner- he can't reach his shoulders, after all. "People wanted you dead, lad, and all you did was offer to help them. You've proved that you have a heart in the right place that not even Galbatorix could get to, and now they will all see it. Your brother would be proud."

Murtagh is stunned. "Thank you."

Orik pats his arm. "We'll make a hero of you yet." He pauses. "Though there is one last thing." He beckons to the much taller man as if to whisper something in his ear, and Murtagh bends.

He doesn't get a whisper. He gets a terrific blow to the face that sends him reeling and seeing stars- just like the stars floating around the hammer on Orik's clan's crest.

"That," Orik says, rubbing his knuckles, "was for mine uncle. Don't forget it."

"Trust me, my lord," Murtagh says, grimacing, "I never shall."

 _We found your sword,_ Thorn says when he lands next to Murtagh after his hunting trip with the other dragons. In his jaws he tenderly carries Zar'roc, a little dirty in places, but nonetheless just the same. Murtagh takes it back, thankful.

 _Thank you, Thorn. As many horrible memories are associated with this old thing, I'm still going to hang onto it. Besides, if I'm going to swear fealty I'll need a sword to do it with._

 _So,_ Thorn rustles his scales. _Fealty, huh? You sure we're not just about to chain ourselves to a commitment we're going to regret? Argetlam, do this, Argetlam, do that, Argetlam, save a cat stuck in a tree-_

Murtagh chuckles. _Come on, Thorn. You know it's not going to be that ridiculous. He pats his dragon on the flank, And since we've pledged ourselves to all races of Alagaesia, we still get to travel. It might even be fun._

 _Especially if it means tossing out any remnants of that old coot Galbatorix's rule from this brave new world,_ Thorn remarks with a savage excitement, as if he's already picturing what it's like to topple Imperial buildings with one swoop of his tail.

His Rider tilts his head at him, examining him with an amused grin. _Is it just me, or do you seem happier than usual?_

 _What makes you think that?_

 _Because I'm always in your head, idiot,_ laughs Murtagh. _You're a brave little dragon, aren't you? Calling Galbatorix an old coot...where have you been, by the way?_

 _Hunting Nalgask,_ Thorn says coolly. _Firnen, me and the hatchlings._

 _They're barely hatchlings anymore, Thorn._

 _They'll always be hatchlings to us._

 _Sounds like you had fun._

 _Aye._ Thorn even rolls over onto his back like a dog. _We did._

 _I thought you said Firnen was 'too happy.'_

 _Well, I like that now,_ Thorn says. _We could all use a little happy after all. Now he's acting like a cat, rubbing his head against Murtagh's arm. And you and I have more reason to be happy than we have in a long, long time._

 _Yes,_ murmurs Murtagh, leaning his head against the dragon's _. Yes...we do._

* * *

 _ **II. We walked down to the water, arm in am as friends/but when we crossed over we were lovers, swimming in the bitter end**_

The word gets out to other relevant dignitaries in Alagaesia, and another couple of days pass by to make the pardon official. A few more Riders arrive in Tronjheim just for the ocassion.

"I thought you said our pledging ceremony was going to be a low-key affair," Murtagh says, when he sees the impressive clothing they've brought with them from Ellesmera.

"You've an awful lot of politicians to impress, Murtagh," says Arya. "After all this trouble, the least you can do is look good. And in this getup...I'm sure you will."

He can't help but agree with her when he finally puts the clothes on and examines himself in the mirror.

"Told you," Arya says with approval, when he reveals himself.

"Yes, your majesty," Murtagh grins. "You were right." He makes to attach Zar'roc to his belt, only to find Dalan withholding it stubbornly.

"Um, can I have that back?"

"You're not swearing yourself in service to Alagaesia with this," the elf says. "Come on, Ebrithil. You are well aware of its history."

"It killed a Shade," Murtagh says, miffed. "Eragon wielded it before me. I don't see what's so-"

"It just isn't you anymore," Sofia says, condensing matter in her usual practical way. "But this...we like to think this is closer."

From behind her she produces a new sword, tucked into a gleaming scabbard, a glittering red stone set in the hilt.

Murtagh stares. "No...you didn't."

He is astonished at how the handle fits so well in his grasp, the weight balanced perfectly, perfectly, just what he's used to- but not quite- this new sword, as he pulls it with a smooth slide from its scabbard revealing its flawless Crimson blade, is longer than Zar'roc or most swords. Indeed, a hand and a half longer.

"Well?" Edvard says anxiously. Murtagh looks up to see the five young Riders, plus the three who had just arrived, peering at him expectantly.

He's breathless. "It's beautiful. How-how did you...?"

An Elf girl named Caelané (strawberry-blonde, seventy-five years of age and Rider to a silver male dragon) beams. "When we found out you were going to be pardoned, we quickly got started on forging you a new sword."

"We used magic to call up the essence of Zar'roc, to get the right weight and everything," puts in Tobias Mandelsson, brunette, human, twenty years of age and Rider to a female purple dragon. "We pestered Rhünon the sword-maker into giving us some tips, but she didn't help make the sword physically- we did. And we remembered Eragon once told us you used to fight with a hand-and-a-half sword. Got it finished just in time for our trip down here."

"So technically, it's got a little bit of all of us," Caelané says with a small bow. "Now all it needs is a little bit of you, Ebrithil."

"I don't know what to say," Murtagh says softly. "And I don't know how I can thank you. You kids...really are wonderful."

The way their faces light up convince him that his simple thanks is more than enough.

The pledging takes place the following day. Murtagh swears himself, his dragon and his new sword to all the rulers of Alagaesia and all the causes of its people, the assembly signs his pardon, and it immediately goes into effect.

And that's that. The council adjourns. A few congratulate him, wish him luck, tell him they believe in him, or perhaps put forth the slightest hint of a threat if he ever steps out of line. Then they go, almost eager to not have to look him in the eye for longer.

The Riders linger to give Murtagh one last group hug before leaving. Arya embraces him, too.

"Thank you," Murtagh mumbles softly when she does. "Arya, I never would have thought it was going to be worth it if not for you."

Her arms tighten around him, "You've done so much and come so far, Murtagh. Of course it is worth it. This is what your brother would have wanted- and it is certainly as much as you deserve."

When they pull apart they realize there is one other person who has remained in the room besides Thorn. Nasuada, resplendent in a green velvet gown, is waiting.

Arya squeezes Murtagh's arm with a reassuring smile. _I will leave you two alone, then._

She does.

Murtagh faces the Queen and he bows. She smiles at him, and it is so crushingly happy that he nearly falls over when he straightens up again. There is a distance between them, perhaps three yards of an awkward space that Murtagh doesn't know what to fill with. Luckily, 'Awkward' is a concept that Nasuada seems to have no experience of. And rightly so- she's a Queen now, gracious to the last inch.

"I like what you did with your hair," she remarks.

"Thank you, milady," Murtagh says with a similar attempt at graciousness.

Nasuada folds her hands. "I like what you did with...everything. The young Riders speak of you with respect. Word has already spread across the realm."

"And what kind of word would that be?" She notices his voice is as low and controlled as ever, but it's taken on a gentler tone now. And yet she cannot help but think that it will only take one small thing to break his composure and expose the raw emotion lying beneath the surface.

"That you are on your path to redemption."

This time Murtagh looks up and meets her gaze. "Is that so."

She nods.

Silence, but not a hard or awkward one. Murtagh's face is as soft as she's ever seen it; part of it a result of the peace he has begun to find since joining the Riders, part of it, perhaps, because he is looking at her.

"Hello, Thorn," Nasuada says to the dragon now, inclining her head in respect. "I believe we've never formally met. It is a pleasure to, after all these years."

 _Likewise a pleasure, my Queen,_ purrs Thorn kindly. _You are by far the loveliest and wisest human we have ever encountered. It is no wonder that my Rider has thought about you often._

Murtagh's eyes widen. "Thorn!"

"Truly?" Laughs Nasuada, clearly amused. "Well, I'm...I'm flattered, to say the least. It has been so long." Now the look she gives Murtagh is searching, almost yearning- almost. But not quite. "And the things we have both faced are not easily forgotten."

"Yes," Murtagh says quietly.

Thorn rasps deep in his throat, _He could never forget you, milady. You were but a bright pillar of hope in a dreary world of-_

"All right, we have to go," Murtagh says at once, eliciting another giggle from Nasuada. It brings a half-grin to his face, and he smacks Thorn in the shoulder, embarrassed. "That's no way to talk to a queen, you naughty dragon. With your leave, your majesty..."

"Yes, if you must," she says with a gracious gesture of release. "Congratulations again, Murtagh."

The smile he gives her next is wider now. "Thank you."

He and Thorn are halfway out of the hall when the wrong feeling suddenly kicks in. Murtagh turns around, faces her again, and faces the past too, before his ten seconds of reckless bravery run out.

"Nasuada."

She turns to face him. "Yes?"

He regards her for a moment before speaking again. "I'm sorry. I know we shouldn't talk of this again, but I have to know." Murtagh pauses, swallowing. "Did- did you ever hate me? For what I did, what I was forced to do to you?"

The Queen stares. Murtagh plows on. "I wouldn't blame you if you said yes. I would hate myself- in fact, I still do-"

"Murtagh." She's shaking her head. "Don't do this to yourself, not when you've come so far."

"Well, did you?" He says, voice ragged.

All right, she thinks, if he wants to play it that way.

"Should I?" Nasuada says. "I suppose I should. But I don't. What matters is you saved me. Helped me. Helped all of us- and here you are, having made a pledge to do nothing but help for the rest of your life." She tries to meet his eyes. "So no, Murtagh. I do not hate you and I never have. How could I?"

He shakes his head. "Granting me pardon is one thing, but between us there's just this...I don't know. I'm surprised you're even still talking to me."

"I am not interested in the past," Nasuada says quietly. "I only care about now. So what I propose is this." She holds her head high. "Can we start over, Murtagh? Can we begin again as friends, and get to know each other for who we become rather than who we were?"

Murtagh looks away from her and says nothing for a while, and Nasuada fears he'll turn away and never speak to her again, but he doesn't.

"Start over, huh?"

"Yes."

He nods, after a small silence. "I can do that, milady."

"Good," she says softly.

"Good," he repeats, and gives her a very small, but no less genuine, smile.

"I will see you, I suppose," Nasuada says. "Good luck, Murtagh."

"Thank you, Nasuada." He bows again, and he and Thorn continue on their way out as Nasuada turns and goes her own way.

Murtagh feels the slight nudge of Thorn's mind against his: _Smooth, Murtagh. Real smooth._

 _Shut up._

* * *

 _ **III. You were the last of a dying breed/prone to wander but born to lead**_

Of all the wonders of Tronjheim, the only thing that really attracts the young Riders is the Dragonhold above it.

The eight of them lie in a circle on their backs atop the Star Rose, heads at the center and feet splaying out like the uneven spokes of a wheel. Above them stretches a grey sky, below them the cool and scintillating surface of Isidar Mithrim.

For the first time, Bronür feels at home again. He closes his eyes, basking in the memory of his mother's smile, his father's exclamation of pride when they reunited.

Dalan brushes his fingers over the plaque commemorating those who constructed the Star Rose. "Saphira," he murmurs, fingertips tracing the name. "She fixed the Star Rose after it was broken."

"It endured," says Bronür, "the way all the best things in this world do."

 _They were right, says_ Thorn as he sniffs the air. _There is a plague of black magic around here._

 _Well, like you said, we can fix that._

The gates of Orthiad lie before them, gaping open like the maw of a giant, ancient creature in agony. Even if the citadel is empty and the path lies clear, the Dwarves who have gone with them do not enter- the stories of those who went before hold them back.

It's like a choking cloud of misery and dark energies, left stale and stagnant in the Empire's wake, and Murtagh can feel it looming, encroaching on his consciousness. He sets his teeth. The King's magics had overpowered him once before, but not so again.

 _You are a dead man, Galbatorix. And now, we're going to wipe away your memory._

"Go and do your thing Shur'tugal," the head Mage of the Dwarves says, half a challenge, half permission to begin.

Murtagh turns to him. "Will you lend your strength to me?"

The mages glance at each other, mutter in their own language, but eventually nod. They create a link of hands, ending with their leader, who puts his hand on Murtagh's hip. Instantly he feels their energy flow into him.

"So, uh, how do you propose to go about this?" The lead Mage asks presently.

"Simple." Murtagh raises his hand; the one that bears the gedwey ignasia. "Say the magic word."

He closes his eyes and mouths the Name of Names.

And the spells that lie over Orthiad come undone.

Every magic user over a fifteen-mile radius feels the effects; a sudden lightening over the city, like sun rays chasing away clouds, like shadows being engulfed by candlelight. The stagnancy disappears. Banners fall, stones crumble, and the fog lifts.

Murtagh glances at Thorn, who nods. Together they take a step through the gates. Then another, then another. The darkness has gone. They can breathe.

"How fares it?" Calls the Dwarf leader.

Murtagh turns to face him. "All clear!"

They follow him through, eagerly, marveling, and for all many of them still distrust and dislike him, they cannot help but cheer.

He feels an approving tap on his arm, "Well done, Argetlam. Now, let's get to work."

Murtagh smiles. "There may still be some minor spells lingering, a few war traps here and there, and undoubtedly the energy has corrupted some of the local fauna into some pretty unsavory creatures, so be on your guard. Thorn will give us aerial support if need be."

"You heard him," calls the lead Mage at Murtagh's elbow. "I'll need spellcasters in groups of five on every corner of the city, searching the place from top to bottom before we know it's safe to call the builders in..."

And once again, Orthiad belongs to the Dwarves.


	5. Important Message!

Hello Readers!

First of all, thanks for still keeping an eye on this fic. I've gone back to updating it and continuing the story, but since coming back to I keep running into the same file upload problem over and over. The site won't accept any of my documents for easy upload even if they're in the right file format, I can't be f*cked to copy, paste and reformat everything especially if the site doesnt preserve a lot of the original paragraph formatting anyways and honestly, I'm losing a lot of patience with . But I don't want to let you guys down, so I'm taking this chance to redirect you to the Ao3 version of this story, where I've been crossposting for a couple of years now. The updates should come along more regularly now and I hope you'll all stay with me on the shift!

Again, thank you so very, very much! 3


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